


Aftershocks

by Leviarty



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen, M/M, Massage, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 22:38:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5683588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leviarty/pseuds/Leviarty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finch was just a little too close to the car when the bomb went off. The next day is rough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftershocks

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place in season one, probably.

Harold never intended to work in the field – that was, after all, the whole reason he hired Mr. Reese in the first place. His body was too damaged to properly handle the things that needed handling. The arrangement should have been easy enough to stick to; he would take care of the technical side, while Reese took care of the field work. It was a fair set up, placing them each with their strengths.

But more and more, he found himself in the field, sometimes by accident, sometimes by design. It wasn’t ideal, for all the reasons he’d told Reese in the beginning, and he was rather terrible at interacting with people. However, most of the time, he found that he somewhat… liked the work. He liked being able to help people from somewhere other than behind a computer screen.

He didn’t like being shot at, or being caught near explosions. On each of these occasions he was reminded why he hired Mr. Reese, why he can’t do this job on his own.

 

On the anniversary of the ferry bombing, the anniversary of Nathan’s death, he woke with a stiff neck, sore muscles, and an aching back. For a moment, he was back there, back in the hospital in the days after, learning to deal with the way his body no longer cooperated, learning to accept that he’d never see his best friend again.

The ache in his chest was familiar, one that he’d long since learned to live with. He’d found a way to work around the loneliness, the longing, and though the feeling never quite left him, it had gotten easier, especially in recent days.

The physical ailments were more difficult. Most days it was bearable, a dull throb that was uncomfortable and restrictive, but something he’d grown accustomed to. Today… today felt impossible. Today was one of the worst he’d had in a while, and it took a moment to remember that, no, he wasn’t back there, wasn’t just waking up for the first time after the bombing. This was just the aftershocks.

Getting out of bed was a struggle, but nothing compared to getting across the room to his wheelchair – always there, just in case, but it had been some time since he’d needed it.

No more field work for a while, he told himself.  And definitely no more explosions.

 

“Morning, Finch,” Reese said. “Feeling okay?” he asked upon seeing the wheelchair.

“Fine, Mr. Reese. I was just about to call you.”

“New number?”

“Not today, I’m afraid.”

“Hmm, the Machine’s giving us a day off?”

“It’s not programmed to give days off.”

“Well then, lucky for us no one is premeditating any crimes for today.”

“Yes, lucky.”

Reese leaned over Finch’s shoulder. “So why do you seem to be working?”

“I’m afraid I don’t get days off, Mr. Reese.”

“Too many cover identities to keep up on. Ever thought of cutting back?”

“No.” He tilted his neck, trying to find some comfort.

“Come on, Harold,” Reese said, placing his hands on Finch’s shoulders. Harold tensed at the sudden contact. “You should take the day off, too; get some rest.”

“No time.”

“Harold.” He ran his thumbs along the back of Finch’s neck with light, careful pressure.

Harold’s eyes fell closed, but only for a moment before he snapped too. “This is quite unnecessary, Mr. Reese,” he said, swatting his hands away.

“Let me,” Reese said. “You’re in pain because of me; it’s the least I can do.”

His injury was hardly John’s fault – Harold himself was the only one to blame. The original explosion, and the more recent one that had aggravated that old injury; both traced back to his building the Machine. Not that he regretted it for an instant. His suffering was a small price to pay for all the lives that had been saved.

Lost somewhere in his thoughts, it was a moment before he realized that Reese’s hands had returned to working the knots in his neck and shoulders. He traced smooth downward lines, easing the tension.

“Take the morning, at least,” Reese said in his ear. “Have you eaten today?”

Finch shook his head almost imperceptibly. He’d been in too much pain to even think about food.

“Let’s get a late breakfast. We can sit by the river and watch the birds.”

“We don’t often get days off, and yet here you have one, and you’re electing to spend it looking after your crippled employer. You continue to intrigue me, Mr. Reese.”

Reese smiled. “You’re quite an enigma yourself, Finch.”


End file.
